A Courageous Heart
by writerbug85
Summary: Esmeralda enters Notre Dame to find Quasimodo after he is humiliated during the Feast of Fools. Claude Frollo, enamored with the dancing gypsy girl, plans to subdue her and have her for his own. An unexpected snowstorm traps the trio in Notre Dame. Frollo is unsure if the anomaly is a trick of the gypsy's black magics or a sign from the Heavens, but he intends to find out.
1. Chapter 1: Falling

Chapter 1: Falling

AN: A number of quotations taken directly from the staging of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_. In an effort to build a somewhat relatable Claude Frollo, I attempted to meld elements of his character from the novel, the musical, and the Disney film. Enjoy!

"People pretend not to like grapes when the vines are too high for them to reach."

(Marguerite de Navarre)

It snowed. It snowed and had been snowing for days. Esmeralda paced in front of the towering cathedral doors; useless for ingress and egress, given the mounds of snow piled up against them. She exhaled a shaky breath, blowing an errant strand of dark hair from her eyes. She should have been prepared for this. It was not as if this type of weather anomaly, this expedited shifting of seasons, was wholly unexpected. The elder gypsies would regale her with tales of stable weather, of sweltering heat only in summer, of snow relegated to the winter months, and pleasant temperatures between the two. They expounded on slow-building temperatures, of storms, certainly, but storms of relative expectancy. Whether they experienced that stability first-hand or not was as much a mystery to Esmeralda as the reaction she'd received from the archdeacon upon her entry to Notre Dame a few days prior. How could so much change in such a short timeframe?

~_Three Days Prior~_

She merely wished to seek out the hunchback…to ensure that he was not harmed after the reprehensible assault he suffered at the Feast of Fools. An assault she was not fully blameless in bringing about. Her guilt was partially abated as she entered the cathedral. Entranced as she was by the beauty, by the otherworldly light of the cathedral, she was unaware of the archdeacon's presence behind her. He cleared his throat. Spoken to her with vitriol, initially.

_"__So, a gypsy dares to enter this holy place." _

They sparred, briefly. Esmeralda backing up towards rows of candles, alight for the prayers of the repentant, for the souls of the deceased and damned. Heat rose within her. From the candles. From the match between herself and Frollo. He was unrelenting in his hatred toward her people. _Why_? As if their existence was the cause of pain, of the suffering endured by the general populous. How myopic. How wrong he was. He accused her of licentiousness …of witchcraft; the latter accusation more dangerous for the lot of them.

_"__If I had the power of magic, why wouldn't I use it to help myself and my people?!" _

He faltered after her retort, unable to admit defeat fully. He called her clever. She had rolled her eyes, fully intending to walk away in search of the hunchback to whom she owed an apology. Her heart urged her to reach out toward the archdeacon, to beg for understanding. He could not be wholly evil; he cared for the hunchback, in his way. She had seen it.

_"__How you would wish others to treat you, could you not treat them?" _

He did not falter this time. He stopped entirely, stalked toward her like a man possessed. The bells rang out, breaking the spell he seemed to be under. He invited her to remain in the cathedral, offered her discussion after mass as if offering her succor. Alone once more, she took in the beauty of the church: its stained glass, its arching ceilings, the voices of the penitent caressing her ears. So entranced as she was by the sights and sounds around her, she did not hear the Captain of the Guard enter and accost her, teasingly. Their sparring urged less heat from her heart, and he left the cathedral as she sought out the hunchback in the bell tower.

He could not hear her. He could not hear her, but he _could _communicate. That was her first real realization when she met Quasimodo in earnest. The hunchback led her around his small home, and she drank in the majesty of the view his tower provided. He showed her his gargoyles. His saints. His small, beautifully frightening world. Snow began to fall. Quasimodo handed her a blanket, tattered and scratchy, but warm, nonetheless. She only meant to close her eyes for a moment, truly, but the emotions and activities of the day and the sudden drop in temperature quieted her normal control. She awoke to the deafening sound of the bells. She shot up with a start, hands pressed to her ears. Quasimodo swung down to her, his features pained, his good eye searching her face. He struggled to get the words out coherently.

"Sorry! I…forget…how loud they can be!"

Her head still reeling from the sound, Esmeralda nodded and let out a calming breath. She offered him a small smile before she noted the pervasive darkness surrounding them.

"What…what time is it?"

"Just after Matins!"

She blinked, emitted a short, humorless laugh.

"Matins…that early? I…I should go home…Djiali will be positively irate! And Clopin…."

"Esmeralda can't leave!"

She smiled, honest and open.

"I will come back, Quasi. I promise I will visit you as often as your 'Master' allows. And more frequently, I'd wager. Frollo is right not to trust us entirely…we gypsies are adept in moving through the shadows."

Quasimodo shook his head.

"No…the snow," he held his hands out in front of himself, wiggled his fingers as he drifted his hands down. "Too much snow. Snowed all night. And will continue!"

He gestured to the sky above.

"The sun will rise soon…maybe it will melt the snow."

Esmeralda nodded, still in mild disbelief.

"Quasimodo, I know it's cold, but that is no excuse for falling behind in your," Frollo's harsh baritone drifted off when he caught a glimpse of Esmeralda wrapped in the tattered blanket Quasimodo had given her. "You. My child I…I looked for you after Mass. I thought…I thought you left last night after we…after we spoke."

She offered a small smile.

"I came to see your charge…and his bells. I must have gotten so comfortable I…I couldn't keep my eyes open; I suppose."

Frollo turned to Quasimodo, offered him the small parcel he had tucked into his robes as he ascended the stairway to the bell tower.

"Breakfast, Quasimodo. _After _you finish your duties."

Quasimodo bowed.

"Yes, master."

Frollo steeled himself against the railing overlooking the city. When they were alone, he turned to her, stared at her, with an intensity Esmeralda felt in her soul.

"And now you're filling the boy's head with dreams?"

"Just thoughts," she offered. "Nothing wrong with thoughts, is there?"

He scoffed.

"So long as they do not twist the truth."

"As I twist my body in dance?"

Frollo coughed, glared at her.

"Your words, your Honor."

He straightened his thin form, exhaled a controlled breath through his hooked nose.

"I would expect no less from a degenerate gypsy."

She closed the distance between them.

"I am no degenerate. I am beautiful because God made me so. I dance because I enjoy it. I live on the streets because I am not afforded any other means of obtaining a living simply because of who I am."

Frollo's anger rose, his pale face deepening in color.

"You would have me welcome them with open arms, then? Allow their crime and debauchery to run rampant in our streets? Let their sickness fester and flourish in Paris until all are tainted with their evil?"

Esmeralda stared up at him, trying desperately not to allow his height, his position of authority to cause her strength to waver. Her green eyes bore into his steel grey orbs.

"We are not evil. How you can judge us to be so without even knowing us I…."

"_I KNOW ENOUGH OF YOUR KIND!" _His baritone echoed in the metal of the bells above them. "I was chosen by God to act as his emissary of justice on earth. The Church, and by extension, myself, are his instruments. I merely deliver His righteous judgments."

"And no judge has ever condemned a criminal wrongfully? The Maid of Orleans? Saint Cecilia? Our Lord? Your Honor, I may be no more than an uneducated gypsy dancer, but I _listen_ to the sermons. I hear your own reverence to those souls…why can we not be offered at least some civility?"

Frollo hadn't taken his eyes from her face while she argued with him.

"You've bewitched me, gypsy."

"Esmeralda."

"It's of no consequence. I…I must attend to the flock below. It is not only the three of us stranded in Notre Dame."

"Stranded?"

He nodded, still reeling from their verbal struggle.

"We are well-stocked, at the very least. Those who could not find shelter below…well, we will offer an extra prayer for their souls this morning. Have Quasimodo show you to an empty room when he has completed his morning routine," he said, his back to her, his form rigid and speech clipped. "We will continue our discussion after I've completed my own duties."

"I don't believe I…"

He turned to face her, his eyes ablaze, barely containing his desire to throw her over the wall or onto a bed…Esmeralda was unsure. Frollo himself was unsure.

"_It was not a question._"

He left in a flourish of black robes, the red liripipe of his chaperon trailing after him. Esmeralda slunk to the floor, leaned against a strong beam behind her, and wept. Quasimodo discovered her a quarter of an hour later, believing it to be merely due to the cold.

"I cannot stay here," she said, trembling.

Quasimodo nodded.

"I will find you a room!"

Suddenly beset by terror, Esmeralda rose to her feet and fled. Quasimodo could not keep up with her, did not attempt after she made it down to the cathedral proper. It was no place for a monster like him, that he knew. His master had told him so. He let her go, went back to secure a room for the gypsy. There was no possibility of her escape from Notre Dame until the snow melted. Quasimodo let the thought drift into his heart and lighten it. A friend, a _kind, _beautiful friend, for him! And she was _real_.


	2. Chapter 2: Recriminations

Chapter 2: Recriminations

"I wish it were not a sin to have liked it so."

(Veronica Franco)

Esmeralda attempted to settle her nerves. Quasimodo _had _to be wrong. Misinformed, perhaps. She could not be trapped in Notre Dame. Her bare feet alighted on the cold stone stairwell, carried her down to the nave of the church. Claude Frollo was indeed busy, but there were fewer inhabitants than she anticipated, given how intently he sought to minister to them. She gazed at Frollo: rigid, cool, entirely restrained as he spoke to the dozen or so people sharing Notre Dame for the duration of the storm. Father Beaumont was among the stranded. Esmeralda smiled, gave him a short wave, which he returned with a toothy grin that emphasized the deep lines in his face. The elderly priest was always kind to her, to all the gypsies. He provided nourishment when he could, offered bread when he was able, loving words when he fell short of sustenance. It was from him that Esmeralda had gleaned the passing knowledge of religion, of a God-figure. Never able to truly focus in earnest on the long sermons provided in the more regimented services, Esmeralda allowed herself to listen to the gentle priest as he gave short lessons to her fellow gypsies. She preferred to hear his caring, brief teachings. From the reception she'd been given by Frollo just a day prior, she had no doubt that she would not have been welcomed with open arms even had she endeavored to seek out one of the archdeacon's services. Frollo's attention fell upon Father Beaumont for a moment before he followed his gaze to rest his grey eyes on Esmeralda.

The restraint she had seen in him did not reach his eyes. At least, it did not when her gaze met his. His eyes burned; Esmeralda found it difficult to break the spell of the scorching gaze he cast upon her. And he accused _her _of witchcraft. A ridiculous notion. She'd heard the whispers of his attempts at alchemy. The rumors that he was a sorcerer bent on dominating the world. Perhaps that was the reason for his public vendetta against the gypsies; her people were an easier target; would provide a welcome distraction and scapegoat should his experiments cause some horrific accident. The cold radiated through her; she shivered, folded her arms close to herself to gain some modicum of heat. Frollo mumbled something to Father Beaumont; the priest led the small group away, leaving her again alone in the nave with Frollo. His eyes still blazing, he glided towards her, his black robes billowing, at once entrancing and frightening.

"I believe I advised you to let the boy sequester you in a room."

She bristled at his condescension.

"Gypsies do not do well behind stone walls."

"Unfortunate, then, that you find yourself surrounded by them for the foreseeable future."

Esmeralda rolled her green eyes, missing entirely the lustful pulse that overcame the archdeacon's gaze momentarily. He shook his head, the liripipe of his chaperon dancing behind him at the movement.

"You must be hungry. Unless Quasimodo saw fit to share his breakfast, I doubt you've eaten since the Feast," he drawled, purposefully avoiding her eyes.

Her lips quirked in a half-smile.

"I am used to hunger, your Grace."

"And used to inciting it in the men who watch you dance as well?"

She laughed outright, unable to stay her reaction to him further.

"Is that truly the only way you see me?"

"As a damned soul dancing her way far from the bosom of the Lord?"

She raised a dark eyebrow, her eyes glittering in the light pouring in through the stained-glass windows.

"Yes. As a damned soul and nothing more. Defined by my people and the gift I use to sustain myself and those who rely on me."

His face hardened further, if that was possible, Esmeralda thought.

"Your children, no doubt," Frollo said through his clenched jaw. His rage near to boiling at the thought of her form laying prone under another, at the thought of her mothering a brood of bastard gypsy wretches. "Illegitimate and infernal."

"I do not owe you an answer."

He growled. Moved to tower over her, his lithe frame imposing in height more than in raw physical prowess.

"And I believed you to be worthy of salvation. Fool that I was."

Esmeralda could feel her blood raising to her cheeks, was well aware of the red blush that overcame her bosom, her neck.

"And if I had children that did not meet with your magnificent approval, I would be unworthy of salvation? Was there an amendment to the Holy Sacrifice?"

He pulled back from her as if burned.

"Heretic!"

"Better to be called a heretic by one so blinded he cannot see the lies in his accusations and imaginings. Better a heretic than a sorcerer!"

His hand shot out before she could react. Esmeralda found herself at his mercy, truly, her appraisal of his form as too thin for musculature forgotten. His hand was around her neck, not choking her yet, but certainly threatening to do so if he lost control further. In a silent rage, Frollo guided her movements, his grip on her neck strong, but loosening enough to avoid dealing any woe greater than discomfort. Too astonished to react in the moment, Esmeralda allowed Frollo to lead her into a side chapel. He shut the door behind them. The room was slight and chilled, the blue stained-glass windows not allowing for significant light to filter in. A golden cross sat upon a small table, a saint she was unable to name arching over them slightly on her left. Frollo relinquished the grasp on her person. She took a step back from him, took two more when he finally looked her in the eyes. His emotions warred within him; she could see that despite the poor lighting in the room. Anger, ever-present, toiled with shame and pride…lust caressed his internal struggle as well; lust Esmeralda was well versed in identifying, but Frollo's lust seemed to encompass him entirely. And it seemed, to her dismay, to be directed solely at her.

"You dare much, gypsy," Frollo said, through gritted teeth, his composure on the edge of rupture. "You, you who dance on the street for coin, you who consorts with liars and thieves, you who, in my estimation, practices the darkest of magics, you would _DARE _to insult me in this house of God?"

"I have no children," she offered, her voice softer than she had intended.

His shoulders trembled as he exhaled a controlled breath.

"That is all you have to offer? After accusing me of the foul acts of the Devil you commit?"

"You are not an alchemist?"

He scoffed. Would not meet her eyes.

"I owe you far less an answer than you owed me."

"And yet I provided you one."

"I was once young and foolish, yes," he growled. "If I attempted to bend the laws of nature, God brought me back to His reality. I am no more an alchemist than you are." He squinted at her. "Perhaps even less so."

She laughed, a light, nervous harmony.

"You accused me undeservedly. I am no witch, no temptress, at least of my own volition. Though I may dance like the Devil, as you say, I am more a maid than many of your unmarried parishioners, your Honor."

He started at her admission; a shiver seemed to pass through his entire frame. His grey eyes hooded as he gazed down at her, as he moved to close the space between them.

"A maiden gypsy," he said, his deep voice quiet and rumbling. "Saints be praised, a miracle in the streets of Paris."

"I…"

"I offered to teach you, yesterday. To instruct you and lead you to salvation. This storm is most certainly a sign from above that you are meant to be here." He trailed off, moved behind her, and turned her to face the ornate cross. His left hand grasped at her shoulder, his right snaked up her neck, held her chin. Frollo pointed her chin so her focus was on the golden cross. "The Lord sent you to me. Sent you so our paths could intertwine…so that I could save you."

Her breath hitched; her eyes unfocused as she attempted to find a suitable response.

"Esmeralda," he spoke her name as if it were a prayer, his cold hands strong on her chin and shoulder. His hooked nose, his lips pressed into her hair, against her ear. He inhaled, allowed the mixed aromas of clove and pepper, of dirt and her own sweat to wash over him.

The bells rang; they broke apart. He again could not, would not look at her, his brow furrowed, his frame rigid once more. He opened the door, light shining into the room, shining on her cinnamon skin, her ample bosom.

"Father Beaumont is preparing a luncheon for those stranded here. We…we have more than enough in our stores to feed us well enough while we wait for the weather to break. I…I expect it to be available within the hour. There is…there is a room off the apse. We will speak again after we eat."

She nodded and he left without further declarations. The room felt too heated, her skin on fire. Esmeralda forced away the flickering thought of his cool hands on her skin and went to find Quasimodo and see whatever room he was able to obtain for her use.


	3. Chapter 3: A Danse Sublime

Chapter 3: A Danse Sublime

"Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing stronger or higher or wider, nothing is more pleasant, nothing fuller, and nothing better in heaven or on earth, for love is born of God and cannot rest except in God, Who is created above all things."

(Thomas à Kempis)

A moment for reflection. For pasts remembered.

It was either a test or a blessing. Of that fact, Claude Frollo was abundantly convinced. To have the gypsy enchantress so close by, unable to leave Notre Dame, unable to hide from him in the Paris streets...he closed his eyes at the thought, delectable and foreign. He was unused to this passion, these sweltering feelings of desire and urgency. Frollo took his vows, of dedication to the Church and celibacy, seriously. He had kept them well-guarded since he arrived at Notre Dame; his devotion growing more fervent and resolute since the death of his brother, Jehan. Frollo saw what awaited him should he stray from his vows: a grisly death on a pauper's rented bed.

Relegated to a filthy bed in a tavern no doubt infested by all manner of vermin, both animal and human, Jehan had beckoned the archdeacon to his side, sent him a letter after running off with a gypsy wench years earlier. As he dwelt in his memories, Frollo banished the idea that they shared a similar curse in the women to whom they were drawn; women who would certainly lead them to disaster. Frollo had loved his brother, continued to do so, even as the more concrete memories of his younger sibling became murky. Forgotten. What did his voice sound like? What color were his eyes? For all his posturing and holiness, he allowed himself to take pride in the admission that he truly did love Jehan. Missed him. Jehan's movements on his death bed were difficult, uncoordinated, his legs paralyzed and mind hazy. He lay prone on the straw mat, a blanket damp with God knew what covering his useless legs. Seeing his brother, his only true family after their parents were taken by the great Plague that swept through their world, was terrifying. Seeing Jehan's once beautiful frame twisted and in agony before him had been more than Frollo could bear. When he succumbed to the pox shepherding him from this life to the next, Frollo took the deformed infant, his nephew, he supposed, and left the tavern.

Deciding against bringing the boy back to his ancestral home, Frollo brought Quasimodo to Notre Dame. There he raised him and attempted to instruct him, teach him to think like he thought. The boy was the closest family he had, if he even _was _his brother's child. He did not think it wholly unlikely that the gypsy had fathered the wretched child with another man and lied of his parentage to Jehan. No. No he had to take his brother's word as truth and, as such, he would believe that Quasimodo was the last piece of his brother that remained. He tried to raise the boy well; Quasimodo's disfigurements were a burden, a judgment from God and Frollo's own cross to bear. Frollo taught Quasimodo the limitations he must live with, given his appearance and the likelihood that unpleasantness would befall him should he ever venture into the world outside of Notre Dame. Frollo scoffed, remembering his words of warning to Quasimodo, repeated almost daily for the nearly 30 years he watched over him. How right he turned out to be.

His warning unheeded brought the gypsy girl into Notre Dame, into his dominion. Frollo allowed himself the belief that God meant her for him. But was she a test as the Devil had bargained with the Lord to give to Job to determine his piety? Or, he very much hoped, was she recompense for a life well-lived, a blessing for the devotion of many decades to the Lord's work? Frollo never found himself truly tempted by lustful desires for a woman before, and he most assuredly had seen his share of reputed beauties in Paris and surrounding his ancestral fiefdom throughout his life. 53 years without lustfulness. Surely that was something to boast of, something to be rewarded for.

Just a few moments in her presence, sparring with her verbally in the bell tower, left him shaken, salivating, and with an urgent need to sequester himself into a quiet room to remedy the ache in his starved cock. He clenched his jaw, exiled the thoughts for the time being. Frollo fortified himself for the task at hand. He stalked out of his hiding place in a quiet alcove of the cathedral. He moved toward the bustling group of frightened and hungry refugees of a sort stranded with him in Notre Dame. While he exchanged pleasantries with the stranded parishioners, gave instructions to the lower priests so eager to assist him in serving the Lord's flock in their hour of need, his mind would wander to Esmeralda. To the fire in her eyes as she argued with him, bested him, on occasion. To the curves of her body, to the sunlight caught glistening in her raven hair. He would lose control if such thoughts continued further.

His gaze drifted to the cathedral doors. The gypsy stood before them, shivering. The blue and gold kirtle cinched her waist; it lay over a white bodice, its sleeves shifting occasionally down her thin arms. The kirtle rested over a dark skirt, inlaid with star and moon embroidery. She likely made the ensemble herself; adorned it with those intricacies on her own, if nothing else. She smiled. He noticed Father Beaumont grin and wave to her. He rolled his eyes, the rotund priest made friends as easily as he found himself causing fear. He had to focus…but, surely one more moment to drink her in could do no harm? Frollo considered Esmeralda from across the chapel. Their eyes locked. She wrapped her arms around herself and his resolve was truly lost.

"Father Beaumont, I trust you'll be able to meter out work to those willing and able to assist you?"

Beaumont smiled, his joviality never wavering even in the face of adversity and discomfort.

"Of course, Archdeacon. We're all hungry and cold and the only way to remedy that is with food and stocked hearths! Come now, all, we'll drive out the best of our stockpiles and feast, shall we not? Why, I'm certain that the Archdeacon would even allow us to pilfer his own hoard of wine, given the foul state we're in! Come, all, let us round up some sustenance!"

With a loud, earthy chuckle, Beaumont led the little flock away, their spirited voices growing ever quieter as they walked away. Frollo stalked toward Esmeralda, fully intending to pilfer relief from her body.

She'd argued with him, driven him near-mad with lust and rage as she stood her ground, pushed back against his dominion over her. The thought of her soiled by another was abhorrent to him, her accusation of his own sins infuriating. Reason overwhelmed, he manhandled her, drove her into the first secluded side chapel he could reach. Whether because of her fear or her infernal desire to _know all_, the gypsy wretch allowed him to steal her away. Good, his lustful mind murmured, if she allows you to lead her away from prying eyes now, what else will she allow you to lead her into if you assert your will upon her? He shook away the thought, could not give credence to it and remain sane.

_A maiden. Unblemished. Certainly, that meant…that meant she was not merely a test. She was a gift. _

"I offered to teach you, yesterday. To instruct you and lead you to salvation. This storm is most certainly a sign from above that you are meant to be here." He trailed off, moved behind her, and turned her to face the ornate cross. His left hand grasped at her shoulder, his right snaked up her neck, held her chin. He directed her to look at the cross, to gaze upon salvation and accept it as she would soon accept him into her bed. "The Lord sent you to me. Sent you so our paths could intertwine…so that I could save you."

She was silent. He pulled her closer to himself, his body flush to hers, his growing hardness pressing against her: eager, desperate.

"Esmeralda," he whispered into her ear, a prayer, a holy sacrament to his tongue. He inhaled her scent, allowed the mixed aromas of clove and pepper, of dirt and her own sweat to wash over him.

The bells rang; they broke apart. He again could not, would not look at her, his brow furrowed, his frame rigid once more. He opened the door, light shining into the room, shining on her cinnamon skin, her ample bosom. If he gazed once more upon her frame without steeling himself for the sight, he would defile her body and the side chapel without regret.

"Father Beaumont is preparing a luncheon for those stranded here. We…we have more than enough in our stores to feed us well enough while we wait for the weather to break. I…I expect it to be available within the hour. There is…there is a room off the apse. We will speak again after we eat."

She nodded, quiet again. He walked away, thankful that his black robes hid much of his momentary physical impediment from view. Better to taste the fruit willingly given than indulge in sweetness stolen. She would come to him of her own volition, would ask to be saved by his God and by his ardent love. Esmeralda would be his. Of this, Claude Frollo was certain.


	4. Chapter 4: Sustenance

Chapter 4: Sustenance

"God knows I never sought anything in you except yourself. I wanted simply you, nothing of yours."

(Heloise, _The Letters of Abélard and Héloïse__) _

The room appointed for the group to use for their meals was beautiful, if adorned in a large assortment of religious statuaries and ornate scenes crafted in the windows. It was Notre Dame; how could it be otherwise? The long table and oaken chairs surrounding it seemed out of place here; no doubt the room was not normally intended for communal dining. In the upper apse, Esmeralda could peer over the stone barrier and gaze down on the cathedral floor. Here, she gained an unrestricted view of the high altar. Angels and other sculptured figures were set on columns leading up to the gold and marble altar. A large golden cross shone in the light of the room, the stone Savior and Virgin Mother the true focus of the altar.

_"__Still I see your face and wonder," _Esmeralda thought, her heart pulling her to focus on the Holy Family. _"Were You once an outcast too?" _

Uncertain of where she was expected to sit, Esmeralda hovered by the railing. Frollo had yet to grace them with his presence. She laughed to herself. He would most assuredly tell her exactly where she was expected to sit. A moment of thought sent her spinning back to the Feast of Fools; God in heaven she sat on his lap! It was no wonder he pursued her so…she had given him false pretenses, hadn't she? Why in the world did she choose to do…_that_? To do that to _him_, of all people? She bristled at the damnable realization that she took notice of his presence, or lack thereof, at all. Just a defense, of course, a rightful wariness. She repeated her denials to herself, desperate to curtail her focus on the Archdeacon, on his frigid hands gripping her warm flesh, on his body pressing against her, on the sensation of his….

"Esmeralda?"

Father Beaumont smiled at her, awaiting her response.

"You were miles away for a moment there, my child," he continued. "Will you not sit with us? Do forgive us if the meal is slightly, well, _overcooked_ is the polite term we've been using. I took a vow to feed Christ's flocks; would that I had learnt to properly prepare a meal for them. The venison may not be salvageable, but the bread and berries are still edible! And I put a wheel of cheese somewhere around here…ah, yes," he grasped a moderately sized wheel of cheese and handed it to another priest. "Portion that out for us, if you will, Brother. Lord knows that I've sullied enough of the meal with my ineptitude!"

Beaumont smiled, a kind, earnest break in weathered skin. He moved towards her his gait not nearly as fluidly powerful as the Archdeacon's, Esmeralda noted, her traitorous brain offering up the unsolicited comparison. He placed a warm, coarse hand against the small of her back, led her to an open seat near the right end of the table. An older man and woman (a couple, Esmeralda surmised) sat across from her. They were fervently trying to avoid looking at her, as if setting their gazes upon her would damn them to the fires of Hell below. Beaumont, equal parts kindness and mischief, railed against inequalities. His good humor and position in the Church allowed him the autonomy to teach his Lord's lessons even to those unused to having their actions or prejudices called into question.

"Esmeralda, my dear, I don't believe we've had the opportunity to acquaint you with the rest of our little encampment! The Archdeacon advised me that you've already met our infamous bell-ringer, but you've yet to meet the rest of us!"

Her face was burning, a far different sensation that Frollo drew from her in their interactions. She attempted to calm herself, set her resolve. It wouldn't be prudent or kind to embarrass Father Beaumont, caring as he was.

"I have indeed not had the pleasure, Father."

Father Beaumont puffed himself up, jubilant and beaming.

"Vicomte D'Aramitz and his _dear friend_ the Baroness Favager sit across from you," he said, indicating the older couple across from her. The Baroness stiffened at the implication of being called a _dear friend_, but she remained silent, instead simply inclining her head to the gypsy with a forced smile. The Vicomte cleared his throat in an effort to push away the fatigue threatening to overtake him.

"I saw you dancing at the Feast of Fools, gypsy. Such immorality at _our_ table."

"Felix," the Baroness whispered, sharply.

Father Beaumont chortled, clapped the older man on the back.

"You of all people arguing against immorality, Felix! In all our years of acquaintance I never knew you to be so witty! Baroness, as I recall, you spend much time at the Vicomte's estate! Surely you can speak to his humors behind closed doors?"

"Father, you skirt upon the bounds of my generosity," the Vicomte ground out.

Beaumont chuckled again, moved further down the table.

"Indeed, Vicomte! My gravest apologies. Certainly, no need to dredge up secrets or point out the sliver in _your _eye while ignoring the beam in my own, eh?"

The Vicomte had the self-awareness to take the chastisement and quiet after it was metered out by the priest. He shook his head, mumbled a terse word of blessing and welcome to Esmeralda, then turned his focus onto his wine glass. The Baroness offered the gypsy a small, but authentic smile. Esmeralda perceived some semblance of remorse, of empathy, in the woman's dull blue eyes.

"Monsieur Paquet here," the priest continued, playfully gripping the strong shoulders of a muscular and ruggedly handsome man beside the Baroness and Vicomte. "Our Paquet is the Lord's blessing to us today for he is responsible for starting the fires burning in our hearths. Thank you again, Monsieur! Apologies again that I used your carefully kindled fires to burn the venison."

Paquet's broad grin emphasized his crooked yellow teeth. His air was generous and amusing; it was no wonder, then, that he and Father Beaumont got along so well.

"You did better than I could, Father. Welcome to our table, gypsy," Paquet said, his voice rumbling and deep. "You'll be able to liven it up a trace, I'd wager. This is the first moment of entertainment I've had since we first found the cathedral doors blocked with snow!"

He winked at her, turned his attention to Beaumont.

"Where in the Devil is the Archdeacon, Beaumont? Burnt venison is bad enough without letting it turn cold."

"I'm sure he's on his way, Jacques. He's a very busy man, as well you know."

"We're snowed in! With what could he possibly be busy?"

Beaumont shrugged.

"If I knew, Jacques, I would not be just a lowly priest." He pointed to the young woman sitting two seats away from Esmeralda. "Mademoiselle Richeliu and her aunt, Madam Sartre are seated next to you. Our dear Mademoiselle has been considering a life of devotion to the Church. Poor time to choose to visit, my dear, or maybe it was God's will! A trial of sorts, no?"

Mademoiselle Richeliu was petite and delicate. Her auburn hair was plaited, blue silk woven into the braids. Her complexion was pale and ethereal. She was dressed demurely in a simple grey gown, a tan kirtle fitted over it, enhancing her slight waist. She looked over to Esmeralda, cautiously interested in the untamed beauty seated beside her dowdy aunt. The girl's eyes, intelligent and bright, were blue. So deep a blue that they could be mistaken for violet. Esmeralda had never seen such a color.

"You are as lovely as my brothers said, milady," Mademoiselle Richeliu stated, only to be shushed by her aunt.

"Well, one cannot accuse them of falsehoods on that front, my dear," Beaumont offered. "At my end of our communal table are Sisters Angelica, Abraham, and Therese. I suspect you'll see little of them as they have much work to attend to," he sent a playful glare toward Paquet.

Esmeralda wondered how she would be able to discern one Sister from another; their habits hid much of their distinguishing features and they each wore an air of astuteness and piety in equal measure.

"There are a few others off working," Beaumont continued. "Monsieurs Travere and Villeneuve have, I believe, ventured down to the crypts to assess any damage and the lot of us have not been able to pull Madame Clairmont away from her prayers. Brother Peter, you see milling about behind me, taking stock of the wine rations, no doubt. Brothers Paul and Nicolas are still abed, lazybones the pair of them."

The room quieted, an odd coldness settling over the group. Esmeralda did not see the cause of the chill, did not turn around until Beaumont named the source.

"Archdeacon! Welcome, welcome! I've left a seat for you next to the Baroness and our Esmeralda. What luck to be flanked by such loveliness! Would you care to offer a blessing over our meal?"

Frollo raised an eyebrow but inclined his head to the other priest as he took his place at the table. He blessed himself, tilted his head back to gaze toward the arched ceilings.

"Oh Lord, we thank You for this loving provision. May we use this bounty to bring glory to Your name and gain strength to turn away from wickedness. Amen."

The group repeated an "Amen," their voices failing to sequence together. Madam Sartre and Father Beaumont served the group the mostly enticing looking meal. Esmeralda tried to keep her focus only on her plate. The rest of the group began to converse, encouraged by Father Beaumont and enlivened by the food. Esmeralda and Frollo remained silent, eating quietly and drinking deeply from the wine Beaumont had indeed pilfered from the Archdeacon's own supply. Distracted as the others were, they did not notice the hitch in Esmeralda's breath when she felt Frollo's thin fingers splay out on her knee, his hand caressing her under the table. His voice was quiet, surreptitious.

"Will you be ready to begin your schooling after our meal?"

Esmeralda looked around the table, unable to catch the gaze of anyone else. She nodded, continued her meal.

"Excellent," Frollo said, fully pleased with the progress of the day thus far. He removed his hand from her knee, reluctantly, and leaned back in his chair. "Excellent."


	5. Chapter 5: An Education

Chapter 5: An Education

"Love is not honourable, unless it is based on equality."

(_The Lais of Marie de France_, Marie de France)

Esmeralda found herself largely ignored for the duration of the meal. For all of Father Beaumont's efforts, the long-held prejudices of the others in attendance were too difficult to surmount by simple introductions and teasing chastisements. She was an outsider, an _other_. The distraction of Frollo's placement seated so closely to her, of the sensation of his lustful touch on her knee, of knowing that his gaze would flit over to appraise her constantly was enough to put her on edge as it was. She wanted to retreat to the bell tower, to find solace in the broken phrases and pleasant company of Quasimodo. At least she could get some fresh air in the tower; Notre Dame, for all its arching ceilings and broad expanses, felt stifling. She felt flushed, panicked.

Though his focus did sojourn on his baser instincts regarding the gypsy far more often than was wise, Frollo remained as perceptive and sharply observant as ever. Esmeralda would be of little joy to him in her current state. The girl seemed as frightened as a fox caught in a snare. Could he overpower her, once they were alone? Certainly. Well, perhaps not _certainly_, but probably, he admitted, the long-suppressed memories of terrified animals clawing at him, fighting for their lives hovered in his mind. The lengths he took to provide for himself, for Jehan, as they fled to Paris, to safety from the damned Plague.

More to the point, Frollo found he did not _want _to subdue the gypsy, not entirely. The drive to take his pleasure from her, no matter the cost, had dulled. Good that he did not act on it immediately; it would be another sin to add to his ever-expanding repertoire. He wanted Esmeralda, fervently, and was resigned to have her, even if he had to pursue her to the ends of the earth. But he wanted her as a willing participant in his desires, wanted her enflamed with as much desire for him as he held for her. The thought of her melodic voice calling out his name, of her honeyed skin reacting to his touch, begging for the balm only he could offer, was his highest wish. In her, he could find a truer sanctuary than Notre Dame had been, could find the validation and ecstasy he hadn't known he craved. He could only achieve this if she was willing. Willing and comfortable in her own safety. The serious thought calmed his raging hormones, allowing him to be able to raise from the table without issue. Finally. His grey eyes bore into her frightened green eyes. He motioned to the long gallery that led towards the bell tower.

As they continued to interact, enjoying desirable company and quality wine, the others at the table took little notice when the gypsy quietly rose and walked away. Following with a silent nod to Beaumont, Frollo easily caught up to her after several quick strides. Her shoulders were tight, her lips pursed. This would not do. He cleared his throat once they were far enough away from the group to not be overheard. A few worried lines marred her lovely face. Frollo sighed, endeavored to appear more assured than he felt.

"I am glad you continue to show an interest in saving your immortal soul, damned as you currently are."

His condescension seemed to rouse her from her frightened reverie. She stopped, glared up at him.

"It is not my _soul _you were grasping at while we ate," she hissed, circling back to close the gap between them. She poked a delicate finger at his chest, sneered at him. "And it was certainly not your _soul _that I felt against me this morning. Ignorant of some things I may be, Frollo, but I am not a naïve imbecile."

He struggled to calm his flaring temper. He regarded her for a moment.

"My apologies. I would never think you an imbecile, gypsy. You are far too cunning to be stupid."

"Have you ever said a kind word without an insult coupled with it?"

"No," he returned, with such little pretense that Esmeralda could not help the laugh that erupted in her. Frollo looked at her, reproachfully. "As I was attempting to tell you, I _am _glad that you are willing to learn. A soul willing to be saved is already halfway there. I have been teaching my ward since he was able to form a coherent thought, fractured though that ability may be due to his…condition."

"He is not a monster, nor an idiot."

They continued to walk, slowly, cautiously.

"I never said that he was. The boy is…Quasimodo is a different creature entirely than you or I. He has a different way of seeing the world."

"He sees its beauty."

"Not as much after the Feast of Fools, I would wager. Yourself being the sole exclusion to that, certainly."

Esmeralda blanched, but her shoulders relaxed, slightly.

"A compliment without an immediate barb thereafter, how ever shall I mark this auspicious occasion?"

"I believe his reflections would be helpful for your first few lessons," he continued, with a roll of his eyes. "His soul was also damned by an unfortunate birth, but he is capable of learning, much as you are. Cold as it is at present, he and I take our lessons in his tower. The cold focuses a wicked mind," he said, severely, before increasing his pace towards the stairwell, leaving the gypsy gaping behind him. A few yards ahead of her now, sufficient distance allowing him to quell his rising lusts, he turned back to her. "Or shall I give him your apologies? I thought your presence may lift his spirits, but perhaps I was mistaken."

Esmeralda's bare feet caught her up to the Archdeacon quickly, the light streaming in from the outside catching in her raven hair. Her breasts bounced entrancingly as her rapid trot caught her up to stand alongside him. His mouth ran dry. Damnation, this witch was less a test on his piety and more a method to kill him with the least of efforts. They walked in an oddly comfortable silence and a matched gait as they strode towards the stairway. The stairs were numerous and, save from a few small rooms off the landings on two or three floors, it was at once monstrous and alarming to a girl so unused to the grandeur of the cathedral's architecture. The stairwell was not exceptionally well lit and, secondary to both her fatigue and the poor lighting, Esmeralda was wholly unsurprised when her footing faltered.

When the brief weightlessness and subsequent pain did not befall her and she instead felt a solid support behind her, she grasped out to hold onto the anchor keeping her from tumbling down the stairs to her demise. She opened her eyes. She'd fallen against Frollo. _Of course you did_, her mind teased her, she was cursed, was she not? This entire situation only confirmed that for her. She did not recall twisting as she fell, but her current position, her arms wrapped around the Archdeacon's neck, her bosom close enough to feel his hot breath dancing over her skin, told her otherwise. The wiry strength of his arms wrapped around her thin waist, his cool fingertips ghosting across her hips, her rear. He caught her gaze, his eyes blazing with heat, with a battle against lust fully lost.

"Esmeralda," he groaned, inhaling her scent, barely restraining himself from burying his face between her breasts.

Traitorous as her body was, she arched slightly against him, the top of her breasts brushing his chin. He turned his face to contemplate her. Her skin flushed at his expression, her entire form pulsing with a need she couldn't fully express.

"Thank you," she said, neglecting to move from the safety of his arms.

Frollo took her reaction and the hitch in her breath as a welcome. He seized her mouth with his own. One arm still supporting her, his unoccupied hand wove into her hair, keeping her from pulling away. Thin lips against her plump mouth, harsh and desperate. His tongue, warm and seeking, probed its way into her mouth, and met with her own. She moaned, began to kiss him back in earnest, the sensation wicked and heady. Her right hand cupped against the back of Frollo's head, her left arm still around his neck. She pulled away after a few stolen moments, her red mouth swollen, her green eyes sparkling. Her swollen lips quirked at the sight of the Archdeacon's mouth, as plundered and inflamed as she imagined her own to be. She meant to speak, but her voice was cut off by a halting voice from above.

"Master," Quasimodo asked, "is that you?"


	6. Chapter 6: Seeking

Chapter 6: Seeking

"An intelligent heart acquires knowledge, and the ear of the wise seeks knowledge."

(Proverbs 18:15)

The prospect of sharing his lessons with Esmeralda did not simply lift Quasimodo's spirits, it sent him soaring. He lifted an oaken bench effortlessly, brought it out from its former place inside of the tower. It thudded on the stone floor as he placed it before Esmeralda. He indicated she should sit upon it; it wouldn't do for her to sit, as he did, on the cold stone floor in front of his Master. She was delicate. Treasured. And he was at least able to provide this small comfort for her. He was nearly as excited by the prospect of showing her to the room he had chosen for her. While they waited for his Master to arrive and begin their instruction, he regaled the gypsy with his descriptions of the room, as best he could. She listened to his halting words, attempted to interact with him and show her excitement.

Quasimodo, unused to interacting this much with anyone excepting Frollo, quieted as they waited. He retreated into his internal meanderings, where his words were not halted, his voice clear. Esmeralda would be so contented in the room he'd found! He had already brought a few warm blankets from those made available by Father Beaumont and the nuns, but if she was cold, he could always find more! The bedding was not quite as luxurious as his Master's featherbed, but the narrow bed in the room he'd chosen for the gypsy at least boasted a canvas mattress stuffed with wool. It would, no doubt, be more comfortable than the cold wall she'd slept against the night previous. A small table and chair were placed across from the bed and provided whomever sat there with a beautiful, if cold, view through the large window. Through the window, Esmeralda could gaze upon the Seine and….

"Quasimodo, you are distracted," Frollo's voice cut into his reverie, as calm and cold as the snow still piled against the cathedral doors.

"Sorry, Master, won't happen again."

Frollo's smile looked more of a pained grimace, the skin around his mouth slightly reddened. Quasimodo was unsurprised by his Master's rebuke of his daydreaming. He lifted a straight-backed chair with ease, and placed it in front of the bench he'd already provided for Esmeralda. When Frollo sat down, Quasimodo awkwardly took a seated position on the floor. Not certain of what else to do, Esmeralda folded her hands in her lap. She was unsure of how to approach a lesson in general and was further perplexed by how she was ever to calm her nerves around Frollo, who just a few minutes ago had his fingers curled in her hair, his tongue caressing her own, his….

"Should I seek out two other, more attentive, students? Between you and the boy, I have been unable to obtain anyone's undivided attention this afternoon," Frollo said to her, his voice stern, but softened a fraction.

"You have my attention, Your Grace," Esmeralda offered, her voice growing raspy from the cold.

Frollo was grateful for the few moments of composure he was able to obtain after his ward had called out to him. He was set to plunder the gypsy in a stairwell, for all things holy. Shameful. He needed to come to grips with his desires, mold them to his will and teach them when it was acceptable to surface. Perhaps if he had the gypsy fully, he would be able to overcome this crushing lust clouding his mind at every turn. She would yield to him; he was sure of it. The way her body arched against him, opened to him like a greedy flower, enticing and beckoning him to drink from her sweet nectar….

"I thought the cold was supposed to focus the mind. It seems your focus is just as fractured as ours," Esmeralda teased, the ghost of a smile flitting across her lips.

Frollo scowled at her, released a shaken breath.

"Quasimodo," the Archdeacon said, his eyes never leaving the gypsy, "do you recall what we were studying during our last lesson?"

Quasimodo rolled his one good eye up, trying desperately to recall quickly.

"Saint…Saint Aphrodisius?"

Frollo smiled. Esmeralda was surprised at the unexpected kindness within the expression.

"That was the lesson before our last, though, with the excitement of the past few days, it's understandable you'd forget. You did well in recalling his name this time, my boy. Righteous punishment, Quasimodo. We were discussing righteous punishment."

"Amos," Quasimodo offered, his hands gesturing to Frollo, spelling out the name.

"Yes, the Book of Amos." Frollo pulled a small, leather bound book from his robes. Where that had been when he had been pressed against her, Esmeralda was uncertain. "'And I will smite the winter house with the summer house; and the houses of ivory shall perish, and the great houses shall have an end, saith the LORD.' Quasimodo, what do you interpret these words to mean?"

Quasimodo pondered for a moment, seemed to look around to the various immobile statues surrounding them. Silent and becoming increasingly frantic, he stammered.

"It means…it means…they…well, I…."

"Prosperity does not absolve you from judgment," Esmeralda stated, her voice resonating in the quiet.

"Indeed," Frollo acknowledged. "He continues:

I have smitten you with blasting and mildew: when your gardens and your vineyards and your fig trees and your olive trees increased, the palmerworm devoured _them_: yet have ye not returned unto me, saith the LORD.

I have sent among you the pestilence after the manner of Egypt: your young men have I slain with the sword, and have taken away your horses; and I have made the stink of your camps to come up unto your nostrils: yet have ye not returned unto me, saith the LORD.

I have overthrown _some_ of you, as God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah, and ye were as a firebrand plucked out of the burning: yet have ye not returned unto me, saith the LORD.

Therefore, thus will I do unto thee, O Israel: _and_ because I will do this unto thee, prepare to meet thy God, O Israel."

"He judges without the people understanding that they are being judged."

"How so? Explain," Frollo queried.

"The pestilences are given and raze their lives to the core, but they do not repent because they do not know they are being punished."

"In their obstinance and railings against holiness," Frollo said, casting a reproving glare at her.

"But if they did not know for what they were being judged, how is it fair?"

"Justice is not always fair."

"Neither is mercy, but are we not urged to be merciful?"

"Blessed be the merciful," Quasimodo offered with a grin, thankful to be able to interact on some facet with the discourse by which he was confounded.

"Yes," Frollo said, an appraising gaze cast over her face. "Beautiful and capable of intelligent discourse. A shame that you waste your true talents dancing for coins."

Esmeralda's eyes burned; fiery passion turned from lust into rage so easily by Frollo's vile tongue.

"It must be easy to hate and judge from such a lofty position, Your Grace. When it is your belly going hungry, I wonder the lengths to which you would go to quiet the groaning."

"You've no idea of what you imply, gypsy," he hissed.

"How can you condemn so easily, then?"

"Because that is what God put me in my position to do."

"Condemn the truly wicked, certainly, but those who only seek to sustain their lives? What of them?"

"They have ample opportunities to seek out redemption, as you are now."

She raised a dark eyebrow, her green eyes blazing and locked onto his own grey eyes.

"And if I did not attract your attentions, would I have been given the reprieve from your righteous judgment, Frollo? Would I be spared your wrath if my face was blighted, my body old and unseemly?"

"Do not mistake my indulgence in building your knowledge of the laws of Our Lord for an invitation to heap your insults upon me, Esmeralda." His voice cracked, slightly, as he said her name. "I am just as prone to weakness as are other men."

Esmeralda softened at that.

"Can you not impart more of the mercies provided and less of the wrath, then? If you know we are all weak, why not take joy in the knowledge that there is forgiveness along with righteous judgments?"

"Wrath from above serves the purpose to bring the wicked back into the Lord's mercies," Frollo said, his voice cold again, not daring to look at Esmeralda. "The lesson ends here. Quasimodo, think on your own weaknesses and pray for forgiveness."

He left in a flourish of black robes, the bright red of his chaperon's liripipe trailing after him. Quasimodo tapped his large hands on his knees, unsure of what to say. Esmeralda's frame shook with rage, with desire, and alighted before Quasimodo was able to form a response. She ran after Frollo, not caring for the moment that she was leaving her friend in such confusion in his bell tower. So focused on her task was she, she nearly barreled over the small framed girl who was slowly climbing the stairs to seek out the notorious bell ringer.

"Mademoiselle Esmeralda, my apologies," Mademoiselle Richeliu said, softly, her voice kind. She looked at the gypsy with interest barely contained by her propensity to demure. "I nearly ran into the Archdeacon as well…I must watch my steps more closely."

"Yes," Esmeralda said, hurriedly, "Quasimodo is just up the stairs…have him show you his bells." She began to descend the stairs, but a thought stopped her for a moment. She turned back to the girl. "Don't let him ring them. You'll go as deaf as he."

Esmeralda's youth and dexterity suited her goals and she easily caught up with Frollo in the stairwell. She grabbed his arm, dragged him into the room she surmised Quasimodo had established for her use, given how well it fit his descriptions. Frollo had a terrified look in his eyes.

"What do you want from me, temptress?"

"I am no temptress."

"What do you call your vile dancing? Your body melding against mine? Your immoral green eyes?"

"I cannot move your thoughts in any way they do not wish to be moved. You are not so moldable, surely."

"At every turn you rise up against me, tempt me, show me what I could have if I would only give into sin."

"You are a man, Claude."

He gazed at her, into her soul, she feared.

"What?"

"You are a man. Why must you hate yourself for desiring a woman?"

"You are no mere woman. You are a witch."

"I am not."

Frantic now, he hovered over her, backed her against the table, a cold breeze from the window caressing her frame.

"Perhaps I should test you. Wicked as you are, you would answer my questions with ease. Would you escape a pyre as easily?"

The crack of her small hand against his cheek echoed in the stone walls of the bedroom. His eyes, focused now, locked on her own for a moment. He dropped to his knees before her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and buried his head between her breasts. Esmeralda focused her gaze on the Seine, her arms grasping onto the edge of the table, as the Archdeacon wept against her.


	7. Chapter 7: A Heaven of Hell

**Chapter 7: A Heaven of Hell **

"The hell where you are, shall be paradise; the sight of you is more charming than that of God!"

(Victor Hugo, _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_)

She was unsure how long Frollo had been kneeling before her, the wiry strength of his arms grasping her in desperation. The sun, brilliant against the untouched snow on the grounds below, had already set. At some point, she'd moved her own arms to wrap around him, her long fingers stroking his grey hair absently, his chaperon forgotten on the floor beside them. Esmeralda was freezing. The recognition of her own discomfort drew her back from her stupor.

"Frollo," she said, her voice a breathy whisper in the cold darkness. When he did not immediately respond, she cleared her throat, tried again, her voice slightly stronger. "Frollo."

A tightening of his arms around her was the only indication that he had heard her. She sighed, moved her right hand to his chin and tilted it so he was forced to look up at her.

"Claude, if we stay like this, we may soon be mistaken for one of Quasimodo's statues. I am chilled to the bone…I would wager you aren't far from freezing, either."

His eyes were pleading, his expression lost and despairing. He relented to her guidance as she aided him to his feet, his knees burning in agony after many hours in a stagnant position. He was no longer a young man. She led him over to the small bed. He looked to her, agitated now, searching and frightened.

"I won't sully your virtue, Claude. I'm freezing. These blankets look a slight bit warmer than the cold air. I'm taking the few proffered comforts we have at our disposal. It's of no consequence to me whether or not you join me…but we may have better luck warming up together."

Esmeralda climbed into the bed, easily burying herself under the mounds of various blankets and furs Quasimodo had obtained for the room. A sharp, frigid breeze across his spine quieted the doubts lingering in Frollo's mind. The breeze further focused him as the clouds moved above, allowing the moonlight to illuminate the room through the sole window. The moonlight shone in her eyes, on her brown face, in the silvery grey furs thrown onto the bed. Against such beckoning he could do naught but relent. He joined Esmeralda beneath the covers, attempting to keep some distance between them, a difficult task, given the narrow aspect of the bed. The pressure and warmth provided by the blankets and their shared body heat drew Frollo from his silence, seemed to calm his frantic thoughts.

"This is exceptionally inappropriate."

She laughed, an airy harmony caressing his ear.

"Yes," she agreed, "But as we're fully clothed and you seem intent on avoiding poisoning yourself by touching even a foot to my own, I would surmise it is not as woefully sinful as you dread."

"Heresy at every turn," he growled, the imposing effect tempered by the mass of furs covering him. "Do you delight in tempting the bounds of the Lord's mercy?"

"Only yours, Your Honor."

"Back to 'Your Honor,' then? Moments ago, my Christian name was on your wicked tongue."

Esmeralda smiled, though he sensed it more than saw it clearly, the darkness now all-consuming, the clouds outside again shielding their actions from the moonlight; perhaps, Frollo thought, briefly, shielding them from view entirely. Shielded them from damnation, obscuring the veil between heaven and Earth for a few, blessed minutes.

"We've likely been missed at dinner," he offered, attempting to hold onto his own sense of morality, his grip slackening with every moment.

"Perhaps you were. I do not believe I ingratiated myself to the others."

"Do you truly blame them? You are an outsider and a heathen at that. Odious girl."

"All of this talk of your Lord's mercies and love is for naught, then? You shall judge me regardless."

"The day's lesson is long over, gypsy. His righteous judgment on Earth falls to those He places in positions of power, such as myself."

"So, it is in your power to pardon my guilt?"

"Or to dole out appropriate punishments, yes."

"And who punishes you, Claude?"

He scoffed.

"No one more than myself."

"On my account?"

He was silent for a few moments. Reflecting.

"More than ever since you danced before me."

"It has been barely a few days! How horribly can you have sinned because of me?"

"I cannot tear my mind from you," he hissed. "You've damned me. For all that I believed I could save your soul, I fear that I cannot even save my own for want of your body…your heart. I thirst for you as a parched man thirsts for water."

He moved forward towards her, seeking her warmth in any capacity. Moonlight returned, aided him to gaze upon her. His lips desperately sought hers; she relented, met his passion with her own, her arms drawing him closer to her. His hands found her breasts, her hips, her long neck and thick hair. His fingertips ghosted across the apex of her thighs. When he rolled on top of her, urging her legs apart so he could rest himself between them, she drew back, green eyes observing his grey eyes, his strong features. He took the opportunity her minor distraction offered him and assaulted her throat with biting kisses, harsh and desperate, his teeth nipping at her warm skin. Her hands clawed at his back; he wished he had divested himself of his robes, wished there were no barriers between them.

"Claude," she groaned, curving her form against him, struggling to hold onto her focus. "Claude, stop, please…stop a moment."

He pulled back from her reddened neck. His staring, grey eyes burned into her, his desires near to devouring the pair of them. She felt him against her thigh, hard and urgent.

"What am I to you? Beyond a temptation you fail to resist?"

"My ruination? My salvation? I, myself, don't know. Fate, certainly. If I am to save you, let me lead you to salvation with my love. If you are a test I must rise above, let us be damned together."

Her agape mouth allowed for his assault upon her person to begin anew. She writhed against him as he plundered her swollen lips, his left hand massaging her breasts, his right hitching her skirts up higher. Still-cool fingers roamed over her thighs, drawn to her heat. Frollo thrust rhythmically against her as his fingers finally discovered his goal. Unsure of how to proceed, his touch was gentler than she expected. Tentative and probing, his fingers met with slick wetness between her thighs. He touched her, cautiously, continuing to kiss her with the desperation he would not let his hands reveal brimmed inside of him. Esmeralda guided his fingers to the site she found the most pleasurable. She rocked against his ministrations, gripping a pillow under her head, her other arm draped across his back. She moaned, the sound raising as his movements became more hurried, wild. A pressure that she could not explain built within her.

"Claude, please," she whispered, her voice strained.

Curious, Frollo pushed a long finger inside of her, his thumb still massaging the hardened nub in her folds she'd guided him to caress. Her breaths, shallow now, quickened, her body arching and grinding against him, the friction on his cock maddening. He grasped himself through his robes, tugging on the engorged organ as he continued to worship her body. Her voice raised; a cavalcade of shrieking gasps left her red lips. Esmeralda moaned again, a throaty, guttural groan that echoed to the stairwell. Her hands grasped his shoulders and her inner walls fluttered around his finger, which was suddenly more sodden than before. He felt himself close to the precipice, the feeling of her beneath him, sated, the image of her flushed skin in the mottled moonlight, the recollection of her moans bringing him so close to completion he could taste it as much as he could taste the salt of her skin on his thin lips. So focused was he on coming to completion against her, he paid little heed to the intruder who burst into the darkened room until he was being lifted, easily, off the gypsy. He was cast to the floor, slid toward the doorway.

"Get away," Quasimodo cried, guarding Esmeralda against her presumed attacker. The dim lighting and his visual limitations kept him from ascertaining just who was attempting to take her. Quasimodo was never more grateful for his hideous form than he was at that moment. He was unable to hear Esmeralda behind him; his vision was obscured and did not allow him to read her lips.

"Quasi, no! He's…we were…he cannot hear me! What am I to do?"

Frollo moved toward the door, mindful to stay out of the moonlight.

"He cannot hear, and he cannot see me well enough…I must…I…."

Quasimodo growled, stomped a massive foot on the floor.

"GO!"

The Archdeacon attempted to right himself as he fled down the many steps of the tower, led more by memory than sight. Quasimodo turned back to Esmeralda, barely able to see her in the darkness. A small candle illuminated the room. Mademoiselle Richeliu cupped her small, white hand around the flame, shielding it from any errant breeze.

"Are you alright, Mademoiselle? I heard a cry and Quasimodo worried it might have been you."

The girl lit a few of the candles around the room, filling it with light. Quasimodo seemed ready to chase after the unknown assailant. Esmeralda caught his singular gaze in the light.

"It was a nightmare, nothing more," she said to Mademoiselle Richeliu, her eyes never leaving Quasimodo's distorted face.

He remained silent, his twisted frame tensing at her lie. Mademoiselle Richeliu smiled, a relieved sigh escaping her lips.

"Saints be praised! We were worried when you did not join us for dinner! Well, I was worried. The others are always too caught up in their own concerns," she said, her lovely face kind and warm in the candlelight.

Esmeralda smiled back at her, forced though the smile was.

"I was so tired and the bed so welcoming! It's a rarity that a gypsy has such luxury! Undoubtedly, I can't recall the last time I slept with so much warmth surrounding me!"

"I should retire to my own bed! My aunt will be searching for me if I am away any longer, I fear! Pleasant dreams, Mademoiselle! May the Lord watch over you."

The girl's candlelight dimmed as she retreated down the stairs. Quasimodo turned to Esmeralda; his expression confused.

"You lied. No dream. There was a man here. I saved you."

Her smile was sad, but in earnest. Her warm hand rested on his shoulder.

"Thank you for caring about me, Quasimodo. You are a good friend."

His muddled expression began to soften at her attestation.

"Your friend!"

"I believe I am even more tired now than I was before. Thank you, Quasi. I think I'll be able to sleep soundly knowing you watch over me."

With a large smile and a nod of acknowledgment, Quasimodo left her, shutting the door behind him. He considered sleeping outside of the door, but was confident that Esmeralda's assailant would not attempt to return that evening. He moved slowly back to his tower, to his gargoyles and saints and solitude.

…

The sight of Frollo, disheveled and red, stumbling out of the stairwell was beyond merely unexpected for Father Beaumont. The sight was downright concerning. Frollo was rarely out of sorts, barring the past few days, and the priest had _never _seen him so franticly desperate. He had known the man for decades, known his moods to be relatively stable and predictable; this was worrisome, at best. He thanked the Saints that he was the only witness to the oddity.

"Claude," he called out, hustling to the Archdeacon's side. "Claude, what in God's name is wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost." He looked closely at Frollo's ashen face, his missing chaperon, the flush across his neck. "Nay, perhaps a fleet of ghosts. Come, sit," he said, leading him to a bench along the upper cathedral floor.

Frollo acquiesced, tried to let deep, controlled breaths calm him.

"I am weaker than I believed, Alexandre."

Beaumont shifted, leaned closer to Frollo.

"As are we all, Claude. It is the reason for the great Sacrifice, is it not? We are weak and sometimes unable to resist our weakness. Do you need a confessional? I believe the others have retired, but if you feel more comfortable…."

"How long have you been in the Church, Alexandre, forty years? Fifty?"

Beaumont smiled, a kind break in his wrinkled face.

"A bit more than that, as well you know."

"How did you resist the temptations the Lord gave you?"

"Prayer. Fasting. Why, Claude? Do you feel you are being tested?

Frollo would not meet his gaze, simply stared blankly out in front of himself.

"Every moment."

"Does this have to do with the gypsy staying with us?"

Frollo's wild affect, his frantic eyes, his gaze that transitioned from blank to crazed in mere moments, gave Beaumont the answer the Archdeacon's words would not. Beaumont smiled, kindly.

"I will not betray your confidence. You are not a young man, Claude, but you are no invalid elder, either. She is beautiful and kind. I fear she is more intelligent than you know."

"So, my…_lusts_ are warranted? Please, Alexandre, we both know the holy laws better than that; beauty is not a reason sins can be absolved. She is a test…a test I am failing in surmounting."

"Or perhaps you were never meant for this life, Claude," Beaumont said, cautiously.

"You dare much, Father."

"Perhaps. But perhaps the Lord did not mean for you to be always dedicated to the Church. We cannot all be Paul. Some tend to the Lord's greater flock; some tend to a smaller brood. No task is above another as long as we bring glory to His name."

He patted Frollo's knee as he stood, in his grandfatherly way, and smiled down at him.

"Pray upon it, Claude. Seek His answers in your heart. You will find your answer within."

Frollo sat in the bench in silence, his head bowed, his hands pressed against his temples, until the sun rose.


	8. Chapter 8: Drowning

**Chapter 8: Drowning**

"By nature, man without woman can feel no joy."

(Christine de Pizan)

They each found some repose, separated though it was. Esmeralda, certain that Frollo had made it away from danger safely, slippery fiend that he was, buried herself in the mounds of blankets and took full advantage of the luxury of an actual bed, sleeping well into midmorning. The snow still fell, the city outside of Notre Dame unnervingly silent. She wondered, as she returned to consciousness, stretching her lithe limbs out of the warmth of the blankets, what had overcome her since their frozen sequestering in the cathedral. Perhaps Frollo's growing obsession with her, coupled with the anxieties of being quite literally barred from leaving Notre Dame was having an ill effect on her. She rose from the bed, tentatively, slowly, the chill caressing her as she left the sanctuary of her blanket cocoon. She readied herself for the day unhurriedly, cleansing and dressing herself, her mind too focused on the previous days.

Had it really only been two days since the Feast of Fools? It felt an eternity. She'd never given much thought to Frollo's existence, save the general rule she followed, as did her fellow gypsies, to avoid the tyrant at all costs. She wasn't sure what to make of him now. Or herself, if she was perfectly honest. Esmeralda had desires, of course, but had never seen fit to act on them. No one had been overtly appealing. Thinking on the archdeacon, she was still confounded on what had been so appealing about him…it certainly was not his outward appearance. The man was not vile, to be sure, but his nose was large and hooked, his face sallow, his frame wiry…he was far older than she. What in God's name drew her to him? It was not a one-sided attraction; for some odd reason, her body cried out for his in nearly as much desperation as his body beckoned for hers. He held sway over her life, the lives of her people. That had to be it. Though that drive was coupled with her desire to fell his rigid piety, to sully him and humble him to the point that he felt his own humanity more acutely. Perhaps she could, if not change him, at the very least temper his blind devotion with logic and compassion.

Esmeralda could accept her attraction to Frollo in the same way that she accepted her sequestering in Notre Dame. She was unable to _do _anything about it, at least not yet, so, she reasoned, she may as well give into it. Perhaps she could gain some enjoyment out of it. If nothing else, the tale would be excessively diverting to Clopin. She ran her cool hands over her skirts, smoothing them as best she could out of anxiety and habit. She'd have to face him today. They would have a conversation. She was determined to have it so. They were not slaves to animalistic passions, despite his implications that she was barely more than a vixen beckoning him to temptation. Their standing in society as far separated as it was, she would need to broach the topic delicately; discretion was needed to avoid the prying eyes of the others in Notre Dame, or, possibly a worse result, enflaming his volatile temper. For now, though, she was in dire need of sustenance. Determined to take on the tasks ahead of her, Esmeralda left the room, her steps light and free as she traversed the cold stairwell in search of the morning's rations.

…

Quasimodo rose with the sun, as always. Mademoiselle Richeliu apparently kept similar hours as, just as he was climbing down the ropes of his bells after sounding their morning song, she appeared, smile welcoming, arms full of books and a basket of bread, fruit, cheese, and milk. She struggled to find an appropriate spot to lay down her burdens for a moment until Quasimodo realized her need. He took the books from her, pulled a small crate over, indicating she could place the basket upon it.

"Thank you, Quasi," she said, her voice cheery. Though he was unable to truly discern the tone, he understood her merriment from the smile that hadn't dulled since she arrived.

"Is this," he gestured to the food, "for me?"

"For us," she said, louder than she intended. Mademoiselle Richeliu was uncertain if it helped much, but still she tried. "I thought we could read this morning over breakfast?"

A quizzical expression passed across his marred face. She smiled, held up a book in one hand and a chunk of bread in the other. He smiled, understanding and encouraged. Mademoiselle Richeliu held no standing over him, as his Master did, and her desire for his company was just that. Quasimodo could hardly believe his luck, if he was now able to call both Esmeralda and Mademoiselle Richeliu his friends, his world was fuller than he'd ever expected.

…

Frollo's morning had been far less than desirable, especially given _some _of the previous night's wanton heights. He dozed, for how long he was uncertain, on the same bench Beaumont had left him to ponder his desires and very soul. When the gaggle of nuns ensconced in Notre Dame found him, one of them placing a wrinkled hand on his shoulder, he feigned devoted prayer as he blinked himself into the morning. He stood, gave a curt nod to the group, and walked down the length of the cathedral towards his private rooms, stopping only to take a small parcel of food for his morning meal. Mademoiselle Richeliu curtsied to him as she passed, her arms full of books and a basket of food, annoyingly chipper in the early morning light. He ate as he walked, quickly and efficiently, gulping down the flask of wine it was certainly far too early for him to be enjoying. Frollo needed the calm and solitude he would only find once entrenched in his private quarters. Far away from his duties, far away from the alluring gypsy maiden he had nearly ruined the previous evening. If God wanted him to have her, to truly _have _her, there was no need to fight against it. But he needed time to himself to ponder, to pray. His cock, unbidden, swelled again as he thought of Esmeralda. G_odsakes, he needed time to find the pinnacle of lust he kept being denied_. Once he had a clear head, perhaps he could approach the situation more logically. His cock was in his hand before he even had the door to his quarters shut. Struggling on the precipice for so long, it did not take him an exceptionally long time to reach his peak. He grasped his rigid member in one hand, his eyes closing tightly. He imagined the gypsy nude and spread before him, pliant and welcoming, his name on her lips, her voice breathy and eager. Heat pooled in his groin, his seed spurting across the cold stone floor as he pumped himself to completion. His breath ragged for a few moments, he leaned against the door. Exhausted, he plodded forward, throwing his chaperon and robes unceremoniously onto the chair next to his bed. He fell into the blankets, buried himself in the warmth, his last thoughts before sleep overtook him dwelling on the gypsy girl and his deep-seated desire to have her frame draped across his own as he slept.

...

AN: Apologies for the delay; life gets in the way and has an odd way of balancing the highs and lows. Lengthier updates to come.


	9. Chapter 9: Anxieties

Chapter 9: Anxieties

"Anxiety is love's greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic."

(Anaïs Nin)

She couldn't find Frollo anywhere. Not that she was looking for him. Certainly not. But without his diversion, in the form of his instruction, their debates, or their mutually growing lust, Esmeralda found herself at a distinct loss for entertainment. Initially, she tired of wandering the cathedral, beautiful though it was. The nuns gave her a wide berth, keeping their conversations amongst themselves. Monsieur Paquet and Madame Sartre were engaged in what looked to be a quiet, yet lively conversation, the blacksmith's crooked smile wide as he spoke. Esmeralda, so focused as she had been on Mademoiselle Richeliu's violet eyes as the group dined together, had written Madame Sartre off as the young girl's pious, dowdy aunt. The violet eyes were a family trait, it seemed, and Madame Sartre's gleaming eyes twinkled in mirth at whatever Paquet was relaying to her. Esmeralda smiled to herself and moved along in her wanderings around the apse.

"You almost seem at home here, despite your filthy blood."

Esmeralda turned, the smile fading quickly from her beautiful face. Baroness Favager sat alone in a pew, her back and expression rigid and unwelcoming. Esmeralda balked, her resolve faltering at the reminder of her true place in the world.

"I'm sorry for intruding."

The Baroness sighed, grumbled as she patted the pew, indicating Esmeralda should sit beside her.

"I thought you more of a spitfire than that, girl. There's no amusement in your simpering deferment to an old battleaxe in no place to judge anyone. Sit down."

Esmeralda faltered, but sat beside her.

"Is there something I can do for you, madam?"

"My Lady."

"Pardon?"

The Baroness rolled her eyes, let out a perturbed breath, and glared at Esmeralda.

"It's unimportant. I need to speak with you, gypsy. What bewitchment have you cast over the Archdeacon?"

"I am no witch. I have cast no spell over him."

"I would likely be tied to a pyre for such heresy, but _obviously _you aren't a witch. I'm no fool, girl. Old, perhaps, wicked, almost assuredly, but a fool, certainly not. His gaze follows you."

"It is no concern of mine if he…."

"As yours follows the Archdeacon."

"I…."

The Baroness leaned toward her, placed a wrinkled hand on her knee.

"Frollo is _not _a kind man, gypsy. Let us be perfectly frank on that. I cannot even say if he is a _good _man. He is a righteous man, or _was, _until he laid eyes on you."

Esmeralda, uncomfortable and confused, took the risk of placing her warm hand atop the older woman's.

"What do you mean to do by telling me this?"

Dull blue eyes met bright green orbs.

"I mean to warn you, child. Be on your guard. My Felix…the Vicomte, he is what I can manage in a companion. He…he is sufficiently diverting and kind, in his way, at least to me. That is the luxury afforded by my status and the benefit my departed husband left me. Those luxuries, coupled with my estate in the countryside, far away from the heavy gaze of this edifice's gargoyles and wrathful God, allow me to live as I see fit. _Love _as I see fit. There is no comparison to the heights that a lover can bring your body." She took a long, appraising look at Esmeralda. "As you are beginning to understand. You are already at a disadvantage in our world, Esmeralda, by the sin of being born a woman. To further compound it, you are of inferior birth."

"Being born a gypsy does not make me inferior to anyone!"

"Indeed, it does, in all of the ways that matter. While you may have the beauty and the capacity for intellect that someone of my birth may lack, you shall never be one of us. Don't let his _lust _for you, and yours for him, dull your sense. He will _never _be able to surmount your birth, gypsy. Not so long as you are in Paris."

Blanching, Esmeralda sat back, affronted at being read so easily. The Baroness seemed to understand this, patted the gypsy's knee as she pushed herself up from the pew, unsteady on her feet for a moment.

"Do not let a man of 'superior' birth ruin you further. Love as you see fit, gypsy, but take care that you protect yourself above all else. For all of his calculations, even our Archdeacon may not take your safety into account when enacting his…tutelage of you."

"I…I thank you for your concern."

"Yes, yes. I'm sure we will cross paths again, locked in this beautiful, infernal palace as we are. Never forget who you are, gypsy, and what you both have to lose. Weigh if this companionship is worth the risks. Should you find yourself…indisposed and in need of escape from our fair city's streets, or its fair Archdeacon, my estate is often in need of entertainments."

The older woman walked away, her glittering eyes exposing her lack of piety to anyone who would have dared to look closely. Esmeralda, shaken, but diverted, sat in the pew for a few, quiet minutes, reflecting. She needed to speak with Frollo, _wanted_ to speak with him. Resolved, she stood. She spied Father Beaumont, ensconced in his labors with the rest of his flock, attending to their needs, both corporeal and spiritual. They took no notice of her as she quietly meandered through the stone archways. As always, Esmeralda felt like an outsider. The Baroness, now a strange ally of a sort, had gone off to whatever diversion she saw fit and Frollo was nowhere to be found. When an hour melted into two without sight of the Archdeacon, Esmeralda retreated to the bell tower. Quasimodo's company was what she first sought inside the walls of Notre Dame, was it not? And if anyone could understand her feeling of _otherness_, it was the bell ringer.

Quasimodo was no longer so lonely as she thought. The realization warmed her. The bell ringer was animatedly showing his miniatures to Mademoiselle Richeliu, whom he kept in rapt attention. Esmeralda noted a few apple cores discarded in a basket, a few errant pigeons pecking at what she supposed to be the remnants of a loaf of bread.

"ESMERALDA!"

Well, he was anything but subtle, Esmeralda thought with a smile as the hunchback made his way over to her, Mademoiselle Richeliu trailing closely behind him.

"Good morning, to the both of you!"

"Good afternoon, more like," Quasimodo said, with a lopsided grin and a knowing glance to Mademoiselle Richeliu. He pointed at Esmeralda, emitted a short chuckle. "Slept the day away!"

Mademoiselle Richeliu laughed, good-naturedly.

"Are you well, Mademoiselle Esmeralda? I'm sorry, I do not know how to properly address you," the young girl said, her smile warm and becoming.

"Simply 'Esmeralda,' Mademoiselle."

"Then I hope you shall call me Marie! We shall be like real friends, shall we not?"

The Baroness' words and warnings resounded within Esmeralda.

"Perhaps when it is just the three of us. I would not wish to breach the decorum so many of your familiars deem necessary."

"Oh, no one cares a fig about that!"

Esmeralda raised an eyebrow, shaking her head at the girl's innocence.

"Just the same, we shall keep our familiarity between the trio of us, shall we not? It will be a delightful secret."

Quasimodo, lost in conversation with his unseen Saints, interjected into the conversation abruptly.

"Have you seen my Mast…the Archdeacon? He is late. Not like him to be late."

A blush crept up her face, her throat suddenly dry.

"I have not," Esmeralda offered simply, moving toward the walled opening overlooking the Seine.

The grounds below were still coated in snow, though there were _finally _signs of life milling about. Scarce signs, she noted dejectedly. They were likely to be stranded in Notre Dame for at least another few days. Frollo previously expressed his desire to teach her, amongst his other expressed desires for her. If he was set to instruct Quasimodo, it was likely he would be arriving to the bell tower shortly. It could be beneficial for her to appear _willing_, Esmeralda considered. If she were truly honest with herself, a skill Esmeralda felt almost overly proficient in, she would admit that she felt a strong pull to see the Archdeacon. She drank in the beauty of the wintry landscape beneath for another moment, relishing the feeling of freedom provided by the fresh air, before she turned back to Quasimodo and Marie.

"If you have no objections, I believe I may join you for your lessons today, Quasimodo."

He clapped his large hands together, clearly pleased.

"Wonderful!"

…

He prayed. Fervently. Desperately. Prayed for guidance, for absolution, for a defense against the hellfire threatening to engulf his very soul. As always, the heavens were silent. Despite his piety, his ardent desire to remain faithful, God would not answer him. Was He even listening? Had he strayed so far from his path of righteousness that the Holy Father would not, _could _not, see fit to guide him to safety? In his acceptance of his role as shepherd to Quasimodo, Frollo was once assured of the absolute security of his own soul, of his position as one of the Lord's chosen few. He was certain that he had been bestowed with power on Earth, set with the task of assuring the flock assigned to his guidance obeyed the laws set by Heaven and, he had reasoned, himself as God's emissary, even _if _God remained as silent as the stone Saints that decorated Notre Dame. Three days of trials, from _one _trial, to be precise, and he had so easily fallen from grace. Frollo initially deemed the gypsy girl to be sent by the Devil himself, a reminder of the failures of Jehan, of the risks of giving into temptation, of his own failings and lusts. He could conquer this lust, could rein himself back into his normal stringent control.

A brief, fleeting thought caressed his mind, wrapped around his heart and stretched out to his loins. The gypsy was to be his. Whether this was by God's hand, his own, or the very Devil's, what did it matter? He could return to penitence later. Better to have her now while she was willing, while he was able. Perhaps he could work on reforming her, as he originally thought, could bring her into his flock and mould her into an acceptable partner. A mistress, if not a proper wife. Whatever he called her, she would be his and his alone. His to enjoy, to instruct, to discipline, to cherish. _What if she wouldn't have him? _His brow furrowed. Foolish thought. He held her life, the lives of her people as well, in his grasp. If she would not submit voluntarily, she would submit under duress. Frollo would bend Esmeralda to his will and, when she was safely his, he would show her his passions and _make _her love him as he loved her.

Frollo glared at his reflection, wan and pale, in the small mirror in his quarters. He let out a controlled, shaking breath: metered, cold. His eyes, grey and empty as he tried to quiet the myriad of anxieties coursing through his mind, blinked into focus. He righted his robes, set the chaperon atop his greyed head, and strode out of his rooms, before his resolve faltered.

_He must find Esmeralda._

The bells rang, signaled Nones. God above, was he that late for his scholarly attempts to teach Quasimodo? Esmeralda would have to wait. He was the boy's only father figure, truly, barring Beaumont, he supposed. Best to attend to his duties first so that the gypsy siren could be afforded his full attention. The thought drove him toward the bell tower, past a smirking Baroness, and up the winding stairs. Unrestrained laughter reached his ears. He scowled. What could this be?


End file.
